Gateway to Reality: Reality Series, #1

Wes Teague sat up, panting.

Wendy! She’s gone? Wait … where …?

Disorientation usurped the thought. He scanned the room around him. Disjointed images were thick in his mind, clouding his senses. He was lucid enough to recognize his apartment. He was in bed. He’d been sleeping. Dreaming?

The images came crashing back like a hard surf breaking up driftwood. They were flickers of another place. Another life? The thought chilled him. He squeezed his eyes closed and let the scenes clarify.

He saw his sister vanish into swirling blackness beneath a giant silvery bean and heard the echo of his own voice screaming her name. Wendy!

He saw a bearded man who was somehow both strange and familiar at the same time.

He saw Emily, looking at him as if he were an alien, telling him to get lost. Emily, who had been his girlfriend for the past nine months.

Wes’s chest rose and fell with deep breaths, and he tried to get hold of himself. The visions didn’t fade. Even more jarring than what he’d seen in his dream was this room around him. It was worse because, compared to the vivid scenes clattering around in his mind, it didn’t feel real.

This was the same crummy, overpriced flat he’d called home since graduating from the Art Institute of Chicago five months ago. He squinted, trying to grasp what had changed.

In one corner, a heap of clothes hung over a chair with his wrinkled black Habanero’s uniform thrown on top. On the other side, an easel held the half-finished painting that stared back like an eyesore every time he glanced at it. Everything was the same, and yet it felt so different.

It wasn’t the room that had changed. He was seeing it all through a haze, almost like he needed to update his prescription. Only he didn’t wear glasses. He rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times, but nothing changed.

He didn’t know how or why, but the world around him had faded somehow, the way a Polaroid image did years later when the event was nothing more than a memory.

The image of the old man resurfaced, suddenly brighter than the rest. Wes concentrated on the features, a strange sense of intuition telling him this man with the heavily lined face, deep set eyes, and gray beard held a clue. Wes homed in on the familiar vibe, trying to draw a connection from his memory. The man wore a brown cloak over a long tunic that was tied at the waist. Finally, the connection came. He was the dude from Star Wars.

No, that couldn’t be right. He must be someone else. Wes thought hard, and he heard the man speak, another echo from the other side of sleep.

You are living in a dream. That world isn’t real.

Another chill shot down Wes’s spine and prickled the hairs on his arms.

What world? This place felt a like a dream. Was that what the man had meant?

That couldn’t be right. He let out a shaky breath and tried to push away the anxiety that plagued his mind. Why was he thinking about some weird old man? Wes shook his head to clear it.

The scenes didn’t dim, but Wes had to face reality and hope they’d fade as he came out of his slumber. This was the real world. Emily was still his girlfriend, and Wendy was fine.

Thinking of his sister made him wonder how long it had been since he’d talked to her. He thought back to last month when she’d called to wish him a happy birthday. They didn’t usually talk more than once a month, but that phone call seemed an eternity ago. Maybe he should call her. She was probably at work right now, dealing with a stressed supervisor or an angry patient. She wouldn’t want to be interrupted. She might not even answer. Still, calling couldn’t hurt.

Wes yanked the sheet off of him, threw his legs over the side of the bed, and strode over to the phone. The blinking light on the answering machine insisted someone had called while he was asleep. Why hadn’t it rang? Still distracted by the surreal ambiance around him, he strained to remember. He’d turned the ringer off last night after …

He pressed the play button as the events of the previous evening came back to him. Emily had come over. She’d asked him to move in with her. He’d told her that he needed his space. It had exploded into a massive fight.

Now Emily’s furious voice came over the line, forcing him to mentally relive that conversation. He went to the bathroom while the message played, and when he returned she was still talking. What was she rambling on about? She seemed to be continuing the argument from last night. She must’ve called right after she left.

… anyway, we need to talk. Call me back.

Wes groaned and rubbed his temples. He wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. Their fight must have been why he’d dreamt of her. Panic briefly flashed through him as he saw the dream scene again. But it was quickly snuffed by her agitated voice ringing in his ears. He could call her later.

He opted to call Wendy instead. Getting her voicemail, he hung up and decided to make breakfast. Maybe if he had enough caffeine the haze would go away.

In the middle of a bite of cereal, the phone rang. Wes jumped for it but knocked the milk over. The mess pooled across the counter and over a charcoal sketch he’d left lying out. He tipped the milk carton upright and grabbed the drawing by a corner, rushing it to a dry surface. He grabbed a paper towel and blotted.

The machine picked up before he could get to the phone.

Hi, Wes. It’s your father.

Wes grimaced and grabbed another handful of paper towels to clean up the floor. Why did his dad always think he had to introduce himself? Did he think his own son would forget him? Sometimes Wes wished he could.

We haven’t heard from you lately. Your mother and I have been wondering what you’ve been up to. You should call us sometime. His father cleared his throat. Wes braced himself for the topic he knew must be coming. Have you found a job yet? You know, you’re never going to find something unless you put yourself out there. If you don’t go on interviews you can’t expect … The throat clearing again. Anyway, one of my coworkers has a contact at an insurance company in Chicago. He said he might be able to get you an interview. A pause. Call me back, son.

Wes groaned. As if his job waiting tables wasn’t a real job. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but it paid the bills. He only had to work there until he could get an art commission. Just put in the time until he got a break. He’d do his best and then—

Suddenly Wes remembered it was Tuesday. He glanced at the clock. 11:13.

Crap!

He was late for work.

~

After work, Wes went out for drinks with two of his friends, Andy Filarski and Justin Hopkins. Both Wendy and Emily had been on his mind all day, though he hadn’t called either. Something kept telling him the real problem here wasn’t with either of them. It was with himself. Not caffeine, food, or a day at work had been able to dim the brightness of that place he’d gone when he’d slept last night.

He fixed his gaze on the beer in front of him. In his peripheral vision, Justin’s pale face and red hair bobbed forward each time the lanky guy went in for a handful of bar nuts. On Wes’s other side, Andy finally seemed to give up his failing attempts at flirting with the waitress.

Dude, why was Pearson laying into you all day? It’s like he has a death wish for you or something. Andy popped a handful of pretzels into his mouth and drowned the bite with a swig of beer. The fedora crowning his short, dark hair tipped up and came back down as he brought the bottle back to the counter.

You’re telling me, Wes said. Late to work, and that guy thinks he can rip me apart. He actually threatened to fire me. Who does he think he is?

He continued to stare at the longneck in front of him, watching the condensation collect and roll down the side of the bottle, forming a ring on the wooden counter. Even after a full shift at work, he couldn’t shake the bizarre feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t any one thing, just the world in general, not feeling entirely … real. He knew the beer in front of him was real, but as he sat there complaining to his friends, he couldn’t shake a nagging thought. Why was last night’s dream more lifelike than the bottle in front of him? He rubbed his eyes with his palms, then stared at the beer again. No change.

Probably thinks he’s your boss, Justin said with a smirk.

Thanks for the support, jerkface, Wes said without emotion.

Justin smirked and shook his head. I don’t know why you put up with it. Why do you even work there?

Because, Wes said, turning to narrow his eyes at Justin. I kind of enjoy getting to eat, now and then. Gotta have cash to live.

Sure, but at Habaneros? I mean, come on. There are better places to work. Look at me—I have a full-time job, and nobody’s making me clean up other people’s messes.

Oh right, your job is so much better, Wes said. Sitting in a cube making calls all day—

It beats waiting tables, Justin said, jabbing his pointy chin forward.

At least we make tips, Andy said.

Oh yeah? Well, I make—

It’s not even about the money, Justin, Wes said. It’s about freedom. Don’t you get it? You’d get griped out even worse if you were late to the office. Those clowns where you work expect you to put in overtime without a fuss, at their beck and call. Sure, maybe you get paid a little more for it, but you’re their slave, man! Wes shook his head. We all have to work. It sucks. You think I want to be taking orders from half-deaf seniors who drool when they chew and snobby little punk kids who take their girlfriends out on Daddy’s money? I’d much rather be a full-time artist. But I have to make sacrifices in order to do what I want.

Freedom or not, ’least I know where I’m going in life.

Wes groaned. Dude. Lay off. You sound like my dad. He turned back to the beer, touching it with a finger. It was cool, but slowly warming to the room’s temperature.

No joke, muttered Andy. He took another swig from his bottle. My parents are always saying crap like that. Nagging me about my life, griping that I don’t see them enough. Last time I talked to my mom she accused me of taking her for granted. Like that makes me want to call her anytime soon.

Wes nodded, but the whole conversation felt hollow. Some vital aspect was missing, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

So why were you late today, anyway? Andy asked.

Wes blinked. Huh?

To work. Why were you late?

Oh, Wes said. I’ve just been feeling a bit out of it today. He rolled his head from side to side. I had the craziest dream last night. The whole thing felt so … real.

Justin narrowed his bug eyes and arched a skeptical eyebrow at Wes. "You were late because of a dream?"

Andy sent Justin a leer. C’mon, man. He turned to Wes. All of us forget when we’re supposed to go in sometimes. Well, most of us.

Wes stared at the still-untouched beer in front of him. The old man’s words from Wes’s dream floated through his mind. That world isn’t real … Was the drink in front of him real? Were the guys on either side of him real? He’d known Justin since college, and he and Andy had been friends since high school. But the nagging sensation that the world around him was somehow thinner than normal would not leave him alone.

How’s things with the woman? Andy asked.

Wes sighed. I don’t know what’s going on between Emily and me. We had a fight.

Dude, that sucks, Justin said with an apologetic grimace despite his earlier lack of empathy. I’m sorry, man.

Andy puffed out his chest. Her loss. You’re better off without her. She was just holding you down, anyway.

Wes nodded absently, a placating gesture rather than an agreement. Andy was still peeved about the concert Wes had taken Emily to instead of him. It was silent between them for a while, only interrupted by the sounds of Justin’s pretzel crunching.

Justin took several swigs of his beer, then suddenly piped up. Oh dude, did I tell you about the new video game I got?

No, what is it? Andy asked.

Wes pushed off his seat and mumbled an excuse, heading for the door. This dream was wigging him out. Am I going crazy?

He needed air, and calling Emily seemed a viable excuse. Only, he knew how long she held a grudge, and he wasn’t ready to talk to her yet. Wendy seemed a better choice.

Tugging his jacket closed, he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Dusk was approaching, and the air was chilly. Leaning against one of the pub’s windows, he dug out his cell phone and dialed her number. It rang four times and went to voicemail. Her cheery voice came on, telling him to leave a message, Thanks and bye-bye.

Hearing her voice sent a pang through him. In his mind’s eye, he could see her grinning a wide, toothy smile with a hint of smugness curving the corner of her mouth as she threw her long, golden-brown hair over her shoulder. He could picture the set of her shoulders as she bossed him around. Bossypants, he’d always called her as a kid. The nickname had stuck, even into adulthood.

The visions returned. Wendy standing under the mirrored bean-shaped structure in Millennium Park, then getting sucked into the black hole. Her final scream resonated through his mind. He stared at the phone for a moment, his heart beating faster. What if something had happened to her? What if he never saw her again? He dialed again. No answer. He tried three more times, his fingers punching buttons frantically, missing the keys.

Finally, on the fifth try, she answered. He nearly dropped the phone.

Why are you calling me, Turdbucket? She hissed the words with a lowered voice as if she was trying to keep from being overheard.

I—I— He tried to organize his thoughts, suddenly unsure what he’d planned on saying. That he’d had a crazy dream where she’d vanished from existence? He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Are you … all right?

"No, Bucky, I’m not. You’re stalker-calling me, and I’m on a date. The last phrase was more of a muffled sneer. I can’t turn off the ringer because I’m on call tonight. So unless you called about something important, I have to go. I don’t have time for chitty-chatting."

Like he ever called for that.

Is there something you need? she asked, the irritation in her voice unmistakable.

Why didn’t you answer the phone this morning? Or return my call?

I haven’t had time. It’s been a busy day. You didn’t leave a message so I figured it wasn’t important.

He sighed.

Anything else you’re dying to ask me? You’ve got ten seconds.

No.

Okay, then. Talk later, Bucky.

Wes stared at the phone in his hand for a few moments, absorbing the conversation. He willed himself to accept the obvious truth: she was fine. Brassy as ever. But something still felt wrong.

Hey, Wes! Whatcha doin’ out here? Andy’s head poked out of the door. Come settle a bet for us. You’ll never believe what Justin is claiming!

Wes looked up, adopting a placid half-smile and pushed off the side of the building. What did he say now? he asked, following Andy back inside.

~

After a long, agonizingly crappy day, Wes finally got home. He was desperate for some time to himself. He didn’t want to think about his day or the dream that had haunted every moment. He just wanted to throw on some sweats, get out his brushes and lose himself in his paints. Zoning out and letting his creative side take over for a while would help him recharge.

He pulled off his shoes, but before he could get to work, there was a knock on his front door. When he opened it, Emily stood in his doorway, hands on her hips, scowling at him. He stifled a groan as she strode into his apartment and slammed the door. It was impossible for Wes to ignore the sexy swagger of her hips as she crossed the room. She spun to face him, and her green eyes blazed furiously, reminding him how they could burn just as hot with passion.

Why didn’t you return my calls?

He shrugged. Haven’t had a free moment. It’s been a rough day.

"Oh, you’ve had a rough day? How do you think my day was? I’m sure you didn’t have a spare moment to go out with the guys after work like you do every day?"

There was no right answer to that one. He walked to one of the barstools and sank onto it, feeling the last of his energy drain from him.

Have you thought any more about what I said last night?

He sighed. There’s no way I could afford the condo. Even with our combined paychecks … it’s way too high.

She glanced around the room, her gaze pausing on the unmade bed, the clutter of art supplies in the corner,